


World Enough and Time

by thehollowones



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Hospitals, John is a Saint, M/M, Retirement!lock, Time Travel, Timey-Wimey, now with bees, rose and sherlock are bros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-11
Updated: 2016-06-11
Packaged: 2018-07-14 11:32:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7169294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thehollowones/pseuds/thehollowones
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Like a Father Christmas figure who only changes her clothes once a decade, Rose Tyler comes but once a year. John is there for the other 364 days.</p>
            </blockquote>





	World Enough and Time

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own the rights to these characters.

April 30, 2010

Someone stumbled over the threshold of the flat. By now, John was used to clients dropping by at all hours of the day and night, and didn't look up from his laptop as he said, "Sherlock will be right with you."

There was a sharp intake of breath from the client and John looked up in emergency mode, expecting blood and injury. But the girl standing in front of him was healthy, whole, and unexpectedly beaming. She had a lovely smile, wide and honest, and she was directing it at Sherlock, who had padded noiselessly out of the kitchen.

The girl launched herself at Sherlock in a whirl of golden hair. Sherlock rocked back a step under her weight as she flung her arms around him. John was startled both at the fact that someone would voluntarily hug Sherlock, and at Sherlock's not protesting vigorously.

"Sorry," the girl said. She stepped away, reaching up a hand to brush a stray curl off Sherlock's forehead. "You look older."

"You look just the same," Sherlock said. His mouth twitched into a small but genuine smile, even as he sidestepped her hand.

"Tell me absolutely everything," the girl said, and although she faced away from John he could hear the smile coloring her voice.

John was fairly certain they had forgotten he was in the room. But Sherlock placed his hands on the girl's shoulders and pivoted her to face him.

"This is my new flatmate, John Watson," he said. John chastised himself for imagining there was a note of pride in Sherlock's voice.

The girl flopped down on the sofa next to John and extended a hand.

"Hi," she said brightly, "I'm Rose Tyler."

-

April 30, 2011

John and Sherlock were sprawled in their respective chairs after a long day chasing a jewel thief with homicidal tendencies. There was a quick rap on the doorframe and Rose Tyler entered the room.

John hadn't seen her since her visit a year ago, and as far as he knew, neither had Sherlock. Whenever John brought the girl up, Sherlock would go mysteriously mute and stalk into the kitchen to cause a minor explosion.

Rose, seeming happy to see the both of them, sat on the floor with her back against the sofa and listened to Sherlock tell her about last month's triple homicide.

She was an attentive audience: smiling, gasping and looking worried at the right moments, which gave John the opportunity to observe her closely. She couldn't be more than nineteen or twenty. He didn't know Sherlock's exact age, but knew that he was old enough that they wouldn't have grown up together. So how did they know each other? Mrs. Hudson wasn't any help on the subject, and he was determined to give Mycroft a wide berth. And there was something else... 

Look at her clothes, said a voice in his head that sounded remarkably like Sherlock. They were ordinary teenage attire, a blue tee-shirt and faded jeans. But something was prickling at the back of his mind.

"How did you know to duck, though? You coulda been killed!" said Rose, and John realized with a start that she was speaking to him.

Whatever it was, it couldn't be that important. He put it out of his head. 

-

("I don't have friends," said Sherlock, "I just have one."

John knew it is meant as both conciliation and compliment. He could read the fear in Sherlock's painfully open, exasperated expression, and he hated the feeling of missing the man he is sharing a hotel room with, so he took the olive branch with as much grace as he could muster. But he couldn't help thinking of a young girl with a wide smile, drinking tea and gently deflecting all of John's inquiries into her life.

One friend, he thinks, and wonders who it is.)

-

April 30, 2017

Rose stumbled over the threshold of the flat. John is in the middle of unpacking a box of his books, humming to himself. He couldn't help the feeling that he was back where he should be.

"You're back! I'm so glad," Rose said, steadying herself with a hand on the wall.

Hello, John meant to say, but instead he blurted out, "your clothes!"

Rose looked down at herself and back at John.

"What about my clothes?" She asked, seeming slightly indignant.

"Nothing," John said, "It's just that I swear you were wearing the same clothes last time I saw you, and the time before that and..."

Rose stared at him, mouth slightly ajar.

"Are you incapable of entering our flat gracefully?" Sherlock called from the kitchen.

Lost in the rightness of Sherlock calling it "our flat" once again, John let the moment pass.

-

April 30, 2019

As he ran his thumb over Sherlock's knuckles time and again, John listened to the sound of quick footsteps in the hall and the whirring of the I.V. His only excitement came from the occasional code called over the intercom.

"Oh God," Rose said from the doorway. She walked over to Sherlock's hospital bed like a sleepwalker, and fluttered her hand over him like she wasn't sure of a safe spot to put it. A tear rolled down her cheek and curved into her mouth, closely followed by another.

"He's going to be fine," John said in his best doctor's voice. "Bruised ribs and a broken arm. Not as bad as it looks."

John wondered why these platitudes were able to comfort everybody but him, why Sherlock's battered face was superimposed on his eyelids and no one else's. He wanted some sort of acknowledgement from the universe that something truly wrong had occurred. 

"His face," Rose said, voice cracking on the last syllable. She turned away, arms crossed, trying to get herself under control. John was struck by how young she was. She didn't seem to have aged one bit from the day they met. She was still, John suddenly realized, wearing the same clothes.

"You must care about him a lot," John said gently. "I'm glad he has you around."

"One day a year," Rose said, shakily.

A silence followed.

"John," Rose said, "I'm so glad he has you."

-

April 30, 2025

Over the patter of the rain and distant grumbling of thunder, John became aware of a more insistent sound. Several times a minute, there was a sharp rap on the window overlooking the back street. John crossed over to it, and saw a blonde head of hair in the street below, warped and obscured by the moisture collecting on the glass. He threw the window open.

"Come up," he yelled.

"Come down," Rose replied, waving happily

"Madwoman," said Sherlock, almost fondly. His hand pressed gently against John's lower back. Then he was gone, only to appear moments later in the street. He and Rose engaged in a silent pantomime, voices stolen by the wind, wherein Sherlock attempted to coax Rose inside and she shook her head, face tilted up towards the rain that was now coming down in sheets.

It took all these years for John to become entirely comfortable with the fact that Sherlock had an immortal teenager for a friend. Immortal is what she must be, though he never quite found the courage to actually say the word aloud to either of them. But the fact remained that Rose showed up every year unchanged, like some sort of Father Christmas who only changed her clothes once a decade.

But instead of provoking some sort of existential crisis in John, he found that he accepted immortality as easily as he had accepted his mad, brilliant flatmatesoulmatehusbandperson. Instead of the jealousy that colored his early interactions with Rose, he now felt a kind of fond empathy. Immortality must be long and lonely, maybe even more lonely than being an anti-social consulting genius. John was glad they had each other. He was glad that one day a year, he could relax his vigilance and trust that Sherlock would be okay.

Glancing back down into the street, John saw that Rose now had hold of Sherlock's arm and was trying to tug him down the road. Their hair and clothes were plastered to them, and they seemed to be having an excellent time. Behind them, he thought he saw a flash of deep blue, but it disappeared with his next blink.

-

April 30, 2035

"Mother of God," gasped Rose. John glanced up from the weed he was trying to dislodge to see her staring open-mouthed at Sherlock in his lawn chair.

"Do shut up," Sherlock said, testily, shielding his eyes from the sun with his forearm.

"All these years an' you're still as vain as a tropical bird," Rose retorted. She skipped over to Sherlock, and attempted to tug at a lock of his hair as he batted her hand away. Her look of shock was slowly replaced by a wicked grin.

"You've gone grey!" She said, and indeed he had.

"Mycroft's fault. Seeing him actually refuse a slice of chocolate cake was too much for my-, what's the matter with you?"

The weed popped out of the ground, showering John in soil, as he looked over at the two of them. Rose had one hand clasped to her mouth, her other arm wrapped securely around herself.

"I'm sorry," she said in a watery voice. "I just... It's just..."

"Sherlock, " John interjected, "Why don't you show Rose those bees of yours?"

Sherlock, whose face had been projecting profoundly uncomfortable, brightened at the suggestion and they wandered off towards the back garden. Several paces along, Sherlock wrapped his arm around Rose's shoulder, and John smiled fondly to himself, feeling the warmth of the sun on his skin.

-

April 30, 2042

"What are you doing here?" John asked. Rose blinked up at him. Beneath the current of grief, John felt an up swelling of hatred towards her. Rose was young and beautiful; two things that Sherlock would never be again. "He's dead."

"I know," Rose said, composed and somber. "I'm so... I came to see you. You're my friend."

John stepped back from the doorway, not much caring if she followed him. He busied himself collecting sections of the newspaper and putting them in proper order.

"We're not friends," he said suddenly. He so rarely had a target for his anger these days. "I don't know a single thing about you."

"My name's Rose. I'm twenty years old. Sherlock an' I saved the world once. I like chips."

John said nothing.

"John, my life - Sherlock's life, before you - is wonders an' horrors. But he only ever wanted wonders for you. That's why all the secrets."

John snorted. That was a very generous interpretation of Sherlock's motives. The newspaper collected, he couldn't think what to do with his hands. He wanted Rose to leave. He wanted Rose to stay.

"Don't stay here, John. Don't be alone."

This was a step too far.

"Where would I go?" He yelled. All the fight drained out of him. "Where could I possibly go?"

"Come with me," she said. 

John turned to look at her. Rose was outlined in the doorway, sunlight streaming in around her. She was holding out her hand.

"Come with me, John," she said, and he did.


End file.
